“Exactly.”
The tone of that one word made me stare at him harder than ever. It was evident that he had some bee in his bonnet over this incoherent letter.
“But if she’s dead, Poirot,” I said gently, “what’s the use? She can’t tell you anything now. Whatever the trouble was, it’s over and finished with.”
“How lightly and easily you put the matter aside! Let me tell you that no matter is finished with until Hercule Poirot ceases to concern himself with it!”
I should have known from experience that to argue with Poirot is quite useless. Unwarily I proceeded.
“But since she is dead—”
“Exactly, Hastings. Exactly—exactly—exactly… You keep repeating the significant point with a magnificently obtuse disregard of its significance. Do you not see the importance of the point? Miss Arundell is dead.”
“But my dear Poirot, her death was perfectly natural and ordinary! There wasn’t anything odd or unexplained about it. We have old Gabler’s word for that.”
“We have his word that Littlegreen House is a bargain at £2,850. Do you accept that as gospel also?”
“No, indeed. It struck me that Gabler was all out to get the place sold—it probably needs modernizing from top to toe. I’d swear he—or rather his client—will be willing to accept a very much lower figure than that. These large Georgian houses fronting right on the street must be the devil to get rid of.”
“Eh bien, then,” said Poirot. “Do not say, ‘But Gabler says so!’ as though he were an inspired prophet who could not lie.”
I was about to protest further, but at this minute we passed the threshold of the George and with an emphatic “Chut!” Poirot put a damper on further conversation.
We were directed to the coffee room, a room of fine proportions, tightly shut windows and an odour of stale food. An elderly waiter attended to us, a slow, heavy-breathing man. We appeared to be the only lunchers. We had some excellent mutton, large slabs of watery cabbage and some dispirited potatoes. Some rather tasteless stewed fruit and custard followed. After gorgonzola and biscuits the waiter brought us two cups of a doubtful fluid called coffee.
At this point Poirot produced his orders to view and invited the waiter’s aid.
“Yes, sir. I know where most of these are. Hemel Down is three miles away—on the Much Benham road—quite a little place. Naylor’s Farm is about a mile away. There’s a kind of lane goes off to it not long after the King’s Head. Bisset Grange? No, I’ve never heard of that. Littlegreen House is just close by, not more than a few minutes’ walk.”
“Ah, I think I have already seen it from the outside. That is the most possible one, I think. It is in good repair—yes?”
“Oh, yes, sir. It’s in good condition—roof and drains and all that. Old-fashioned, of course. It’s never been modernized in any way. The gardens are a picture. Very fond of her garden Miss Arundell was.”
“It belongs, I see, to a Miss Lawson.”
“That’s right, sir. Miss Lawson, she was Miss Arundell’s companion and when the old lady died everything was left to her—house and all.”
“Indeed? I suppose she had no relations to whom to leave it?”
“Well, it was not quite like that, sir. She had nieces and nephews living. But, of course, Miss Lawson was with her all the time. And, of course, she was an old lady and—well—that’s how it was.”
“In any case I suppose there was just the house and not much money?”
I have often had occasion to notice how, where a direct question would fail to elicit a response, a false assumption brings instant information in the form of a contradiction.
“Very far from that, sir. Very far indeed. Everyone was surprised at the amount the old lady left. The will was in the paper and the amount and everything. It seems she hadn’t lived up to her income for many a long year. Something like three or four hundred thousand pounds she left.”
“You astonish me,” cried Poirot. “It is like a fairy tale—eh? The poor companion suddenly becomes unbelievably wealthy. Is she still young, this Miss Lawson? Can she enjoy her newfound wealth?”
“Oh, no, sir, she’s a middle-aged person, sir.”
His enunciation of the word person was quite an artistic performance. It was clear that Miss Lawson, ex-companion, had cut no kind of a figure in Market Basing.
“It must have been disappointing for the nephews and nieces,” mused Poirot.
“Yes, sir, I believe it came as somewhat of a shock to them. Very unexpected. There’s been feeling over it here in Market Basing. There are those who hold it isn’t right to leave things away from your own flesh and blood. But, of course, there’s others as hold that everyone’s got a right to do as they like with their own. There’s something to be said for both points of view, of course.”
“Miss Arundell had lived for many years here, had she not?”